Drabble a Day
by Simone Robinson
Summary: Inspired by others who have undertaken this challenge, to write a drabble a day, I've decided to try. I'm not sure if I can do it, but I'm going to try. To improve writing skills, to gain insight, to explore the written word, the written worlds and those who live in them. Humour, angst, romance, a meeting of genres to create a collection of drabbles updated as often as possible.
1. Roses

**AN: I have decided to attempt the drabble a day challenge, which was inspired by notawordsmith.**

* * *

**Roses**

* * *

Each rose had been carefully selected. Cold glances from under a low-pulled hat met the attendant with each rose which was anything less than perfection. He chose eleven roses individually, each a brilliant shade of red. Each symbolizing passion and love in its more intense, beautiful form.

The florist peeked up at him, timidly asking if that was all. He smiled beneath his hat, dipping his head to hide the flush that spread across his skin. No, he replied. That was not all.

Padding to the back of the icy room, glad for once of the protection his heavy boots brought, he crouched down low, examining the contents of a bucket. After several long moments, he reached out a gloved hand and plucked a single flower from the bunch. The flower was untouched, pure, in mid-bloom, just beginning to open and view the world. Each petal was perfect and it brought a smile to his lips.

Turning, he passed her the flower, asking if she could wrap them up. They had to look perfect, he warned.

The attendant scuttled off in a rush, as he padded from the cold room, idly viewing the front of the shop as she did so.

He turned at her shuffling footsteps, only to have her shove the flowers into his hands. A sparkle lit her eyes, as she wished him good luck.

He hid a cough at her words and rummaged in his pockets, passing her the payment and telling her to keep the change. He had been a difficult customer.

As he left the store and stepped into the icy winter, rain drops and wind whipping at his jacket, he pulled a note from his pocket, small, and neat, written in cursive script and tied with a white ribbon.

He attached it not to the eleven red roses, but to the one, perfect white one.

""In every bunch there's one who stands out. You are that one. Happy Anniversary"

* * *

**AN: This had gone over the traditional drabble word count, and I hope that none of you mind. Written for, and dedicated to, a very special someone. Someone who makes me very happy. The one who stands out in my world. Happy Anniversary, my love. **


	2. Innocence

**Innocence**

* * *

Could innocence be bottled? Could it be processed back into its raw form? Would it be a liquid, a gas, a solid? Could you meld it in your hands, like putty or clay, shaping it to your will?

Bishop clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the screens which lined the wall, the thought teasing his brain, which teemed with unanswered questions.

If innocence was tangible, could it be broken and damaged beyond repair, or was that simply a metaphor? Could it be drawn out of someone? Did it sit in the brain, in the heart or in the blood? Could it be reproduced, magnified?

Bishop eyed the screens keenly, the running scan of binary code providing rest for his mind, found within the repetition. Rest for a mind that refused to stop, even in the stillness of the night sky, where his greatest threat lay. Rest for a mind that drove him into a kind of madness. A kind of frenzy.

_He had to know._

His fingers twitched and he clasped them tighter, turning into the darkened room, the night cloaking secrets from view. Bishop's voice, a cold, iron fist within a velvet glove, wove its way into the darkness.

"I suppose we will find out soon, won't we, Michelangelo?"

* * *

**AN: I have always found Bishop a very interesting character to write. I hope my take on the word did it justice. It's been very hard to find time to write today. I had a lot of work, and the day has left me dreamy and floating on cloud nine, but I am glad I got it done.**


	3. Imagination

**Imagination**

* * *

His hands were stained with ink, rubbed into the creases, beneath his fingernails. Pencil was rubbed into his fingertips, smudged against his face. The marks were set deep into his brow, which was furrowed in thought. The room was dim, but he didn't notice. All his focus was on the words beneath his pen. He was skipping letters, skipping lines, watching as his sentences melded into passive-voice messes as he left a trail of pulsing adverbs behind him.

Michelangelo didn't care.

All that mattered was that the teeming in his brain would stop. That the sensation of ants walking over his skin, into his skull, down his back, would cease. Just for a moment. That Mikey would have change to breathe again.

His words had been silenced for too long by the spark of happiness, by the trials of life. They would be silent no more. It was either them, or the last shreds of his sanity.

So Mikey wrote, until his hand pulsed with cramps and his eyes gave way, until he'd collapse in a heap on his desk, sweat on his brow, feeling his shell cry out in protest, his soul ache with exhaustion.

And then sometimes, just sometimes, if he was lucky, Mikey would see a light through the fog. A perfect moment, where he'd get the peace that Leo was always harping on about. He'd feel a flicker in his soul and a rise of his heart.

And sometimes, just _sometimes_, Michelangelo would remember why everybody envied his imagination.

* * *

**AN: Sometimes being a writer is hard. But it is always worth it.**


	4. Kingdom

**Kingdom**

* * *

The kingdom spread out before him, a towering view of concrete slabs rammed into the dirt. Broken glass glinted in the moonlight, a treasure amongst the overflowing dumpsters. Often this treasure was found by the subjects in the city. It would pierce their flesh, leaving them swearing and stumbling, booze on their breath.

He snarled, shutting his eyes, letting the stench fill his lungs, letting the air hit his face, leaving it feeling frigid and raw. He stretched his neck, releasing the tension which built below. Below the surface something was restless. It bubbled deep below _his_ surface.

It rolled beneath the surface of the city. A surface stained with cigarette ash and chalk outlines, washed away by the icy rain.

A surface littered with hypocrisy, with saints and sinners alike. A culture teeming with every vice this world had to offer. What were they calling that these days? Oh right. Freedom. Diversity.

His lip curled in a kind of disgust. A kind of twisted pride. The leer of revulsion turned into a kind of smirk. But only for a moment, and then his lips curved back into resignation. It looked a lot like sadness, but that couldn't be. The admission would never leave those lips, chafed from icy winds.

The city had to keep moving, keep going, keep getting battered and bitter, and pushing itself up again.

His eyes snapped open, glowing in the sickly city lights which lay, mapped out, at his feet. He let the stale air out of his lungs and rolled his shoulders.

His brothers didn't need to like it; they didn't even need to understand it or respect it. It remained the simplest truth.

This was his kingdom.

And sometimes Raphael hated that.

* * *

**AN: My original idea left my mind all-together when it came time to write, but I hope I did this prompt justice. **


	5. Options

**Options**

* * *

Sweat broke out across his brow, trickling down his neck. His heart thundered in his plastron. He gulped, the weight of the decision making his knees buckle and ache, his shoulders tight.

With desperation, he tried to remember what he had been told. Frantically, he tried to recall the memory of the packaging, but his mind drew a blank.

He cursed, wiping his sweat stained hands on his trench coat, tugging at his too-tight collar. If only he could remember! It might well determine life or death. Panic wrapped around him like a snake, squeezing the life out of him, slippery, scaly, but impossible to shake loose.

Mikey stared at the rows and rows before him. He had to make the right choice. He just had to.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. Mikey squeezed his eyes shut, and chose. Without opening his eyes, he let out a squeak of fear and dashed off to the counter.

He hated buying for Leo.

He never knew which incense to choose!

* * *

**AN: Sorry I am behind. Life has been...hectic. Rare I write honour, but this is written for someone dear to me, to make them smile again.**


	6. Nurturing

**Nurturing**

* * *

He was surrounded by sheets, by soft, warm blankets and duvets, his head nestled by pillows. He stretched softly in a kind of half-sleep, his muscles tense and tight, making each movement uncomfortable, not even the soft cocoon of warmth easing him. He gripped the sheets and turned over, in a vain attempt to find comfort, lost within a swirl of half-dreams and half-sleep.

Somewhere within in haze of vain attempts and twisting, he felt a hand against his brow. The touch felt warmer than the blanket's around him, it was light and deft. It was familiar, it was comfort, and it was home. The fur tickled his brow and beak, and he heard the quiet chuckle of amusement at his sleepy attempt to shake off the itch.

Each moment, he sank deeper into sleep, into a kind of blanketing peace, giving him rest from the stresses of life which clung to him even in slumber.

"Shh….rest, Leonardo, rest. I will always watch over you."

The words were barely a breath, barely a whisper on the wind. But the wind was warm, and cocooned him in comfort. His grip on the sheets relaxed, as if some divine permission for sleep had been granted. He mumbled something, but his sleepy mind could not grasp the words, as he tumbled into the elusive rest, safe in the knowledge he was watched over.

He woke to the icy air on his face, the warmth a fading memory. He woke with the first good rest in as long as he could remember.

Absently, Leonardo passed a hand across his brow, letting his hand drop, his features softening as he shut his eyes.

"Arigato, Sensei."

A quiet ache hit his heart, because Leonardo knew that he had come from heaven not as an angel, not as a teacher, but as a father.


	7. Crest

**AN: A ****crest ****is the point on a ****wave ****with the ****maximum ****value or upward displacement within a****cycle****. A****trough****is the opposite of a crest, so the ****minimum ****or lowest point in a cycle**

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**Crest**

* * *

In each cycle a trough will be found  
Lower then low and right at the ground  
Things will be hard, the days will be long  
And no waking hours will be filled with song

But one day the crest will rise up so high  
The bars and the waves will brush at the sky  
And we will be happy and bubbling with glee  
Just wait, just wait, just trust now, in me

For life can by physics, in graphs and in such  
But most times just physics isn't enough  
But the heart and the love that we have will burn bright  
And will banish the troughs to the deep of the night

Just trust and hold on as we go through the lows  
Hold on to me and I know, yes, we know  
We're stronger than physics, stronger than life  
And our love will come through all this terrible strife

* * *

**AN: Just have to hold on and keep fighting, keep loving, trust in each other.**


	8. Cactus

**Cactus**

* * *

The pain was agonizing. His mind blanked, eyes wide. He'd never felt anything like it before. It shot through him, making him yelp and shout. Tears welled in his eyes, everything stinging and burning in pain. Struggling through, he drew back bravely, but still the pain resonated within him.

"Donnie!" He yelled. "Donnie, it hurts!" Tears welled in his eyes, shouting loudly.

Donatello raced in, his medical bag slung over his shoulder where he curled into a ball. Don's eyes were wide and he grabbed his brother by the shoulders. "Mikey, Mikey tell me where it hurts."

Trembling, he held out his injury, eyes trembling, eyes full of tears.

"Hurts, Donnie!"

"Mikey?"

"Yes…yes, I see a light..I see it…so close.."

"Mikey….?" Donnie heaved a sigh, "Pricking your finger on a cactus isn't a case of life or death."

* * *

**AN: Another poor attempt at humour to make someone I care about very, very much smile.**


	9. Passion

**Passion**

* * *

The tango is the dance of passion. It is the dance of romance, betrayal, love, hate, where everything is seemingly cast aside, and only raw emotions and muscle memory are left behind. However, those who feel passion for the dance may tell you- It's a dance of control. It is a dance of precision and practice, in which each step need to be exact, in order for the next one to follow on.

Leonardo understood this.

Adjusting the grip on his practice swords, he settled his shoulders, balanced his stance. With a sudden burst, he slid into the kata, fierce and fiery, with quick movements and powerful steps. But his breathing was controlled, each movement precise. Each step flowed, firm, but flexible, allowing for change, leading, letting the dance be led.

This was the dance danced with a potential foe, with a potential enemy. Not a tango, not a waltz, but the dance of life and death. It was a line walked each day in the dojo. The foes of the future were the shadows which danced with him, their blades ghosting his skin with every mistake left un-corrected.

It_ had_ to be a dance of control, of precision and practice. Each step, each movement, had to be exact.

As the shadows always whispered; _There was no choice._

But all the control in the world did not mean a lack of passion in the heart.


	10. Picturesque

**Picturesque**

* * *

The farm house was beautiful. He could see it out of the battle shell windows. It was quaint and neat, surrounded by a blanket of trees and fields. The roads themselves were hidden by bush and foliage, muffling the sound of the rare passing of cars, and hiding them from view. It was a place of safety and peace. It was a place of family and relaxation. It was a home which welcomed them with open arms, and with a warmth and acceptance felt nowhere else.

Raph should have been happy. But instead, his heart weighed heavily in his plastron. Instead of peace, there was a bitter anger in his chest, which slowly gave way to fear. It seeped from his skin, finding its way into the cracks and filling the van with a suffocating silence.

Instead of relaxation, his muscles were full of tension and dread, tightening with each bump that brought them closer.

Raphael kept his eyes glued to the window, but in his lap, he cradled the broken form of his brother, who slumped lifeless in his arms. Raph held him like a child, like bone china about to shatter into a million pieces.

Maybe he was already shattered. Shattered beyond repair. Raphael was about to find out.

The venue might have been picturesque, but the circumstances weren't.

* * *

**AN: Sorry for the delay. I've been finding it very hard to keep up recently. Still, onwards and upwards. **


	11. Reflection

**Reflection**

* * *

There were very few things which could stop Leonardo in his tracks. Very few things which could freeze his blood and leave him cold and rooted to the spot, unable to take another step. In battle, it was nearly impossible to break his focus, to cause his mind to waver or his steps to falter. It was how he had been trained, how he had been raised. It was how he had taught himself to be through hours of dedication.

A leader could not waver.

But sometimes, his blades reflected the light. It happened in the dojo, when he stood drenched from hours of work. It happened as he made to sheath his freshly-sharpened katanas. It happened in battle, before his blades had grown bloody and dark, and they still shone with a cold glint.

Leonardo would raise his eyes, and for a second, just a _second_, he'd catch sight of his own reflection in the polished metal. He would see the cruelty in his eyes, the onyx icy and hardened to flint. He'd see the immovable ridge of his bandanna, and the hard-set line of his lips. Worst of all, he'd see the face wiped clean of emotion.

He'd see the face of a man who did not care how many foes he mowed down.

And he felt his body grow cold, the grip on his hilt tighten. And just for a second, just a _second_, he was unable to move.

There were very few things which could stop Leonardo in his tracks, but sometimes, his own reflection did.


	12. Festive

**Festive**

* * *

Sometimes Raph wondered why he still celebrated Christmas. Sometimes he wondered what joy could be found in spending it alone, with only ghosts to keep him company. Nostalgia had turned bitter over time. It hadn't been very long, but then, Raph never needed to wait very long before bitterness set in.

Or was it loneliness? Was it the realization that the lair was far too empty? Was it the lack of voices, the lack of personalities filling the halls, the rooms, causing life to burst from every pore of the bricks?

In the distance, he heard the shutting of a door. For a moment, Raphael felt his heart lift in hope. It didn't last long before resignation settled back on his plastron, a heavy weight.

No. Just Donnie. Just him and Donnie living like strangers under the same roof. Celebrating in different ways. Did Donnie even celebrate Christmas anymore?

Raph sighed, tilted back his head, and downed his drink, feeling it burn the back of his throat.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he'd be out searching again, once again burning with grim determination.

But today, _just_ today, he'd sit and think, and remember.

Raph always wondered why he still celebrated Christmas.

Maybe he celebrated it because they'd always loved the festive season, even when he hadn't.

* * *

**AN: Finally up to date, for now!**


	13. Pristine

**Pristine**

* * *

Donnie liked it when everything was pristine. Not his notes, but _other_ things. He liked it when everything was exactly in its place and where it needed to be. Everything had to be laid our just right, available at a moment's notice. Everything needed to be clean. Every surface, every item, every bed-sheet. Everything had to be clean, had to shine and smell of chemicals.

Everything had to be sterilized.

Only then could Donatello find peace. He would find peace in the knowledge that he was ready. He had everything in place; he had everything clean and laid out just right. He was ready at a seconds notice, without fumbling and scratching around as vital seconds passed by.

He knew that, should a brother be brought in bleeding and broken, he'd have the precious time needed to save them, because everything was ready.

Yes, Donnie liked it when everything was pristine.

But sometimes, he wished it didn't have to be.


	14. Creation

**Creation**

* * *

Bishop could write in cold blood if he had to, but he liked it when it was fresh and almost too hot to handle. He liked it when the memory still bubbled in his mind, when he could still feel the warm life pulsing through his gloves, long after they had been stripped off and thrown into hazardous waste.

Snatching pen and paper, he sat down. The glide of a pen in a technologically dominated environment was pleasurable. He scratched out his notes, the paper as white as his skin, which was bleached from days under artificial lights.

The light of intelligence lit his eyes. It had turned cruel over the years of work. His eyes flickered with each new fact, each new finding, with each detailed response of the subject they had observed. His creation.

He rifled through the notes of his assistants, snarling at each error as he took down what was needed. His eyes darted across the page in a frenzy, wild in their marble prison, wild with the ecstasy of remembrance.

Bishop liked writing when the blood was fresh and almost too hot to handle. He liked it very much.

After scribbling his latest findings, Bishop rubbed a hand across his shorn hair, pausing in thought. Then, closing the book with a snap, he slipped it into his briefcase and locked it.

Bishop slid his glasses from his nose, cleaning the lens as he wiped the sweat from his brow, a look of satisfaction passing his lips, glut on feelings of achievement. In the background, he could hear the scurrying of employees as they adjusted the equipment to cope with the changing weather conditions.

Bishop pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, letting them settle into place. The scurrying employees, so much like the mice in their labs, caused his tired mind to click back into place and his eyes to turn into flint. Bishop dusted the lint from his coat and shrugged it on. Picking up his briefcase, he punched out, striding into the hallways, which were heavy with the smell of disease, masked by sterile sweetness and rubber.

Bishop didn't pause.

Never does a god fear his creations. Only when he realizes his humanity, does he begin to fear what he has done.


	15. Tapestry

**Tapestry**

* * *

Donatello always thought of the lair as a tapestry. It was intricately woven, with hours of work, love and patience put into it. It was a dedication, and art, something which Donatello took great pride in. There were times when it was difficult, when it was hard to get that one stitch just right, to find the right place for each component. It could be frustrating, inciting anger and despondency.

There were times that it scared Donatello, because he knew that he was the weaver of the tapestry, and that should he fail, his family could be crushed. Tirelessly, he worked to perfect the tapestry that was their lair, making sure not a single hole remained, making sure there were no flimsy areas. Everything had to be of optimal strength, never likely to tear or stretch.

There were days when he would collapse exhausted, into a fitful sleep, not satisfied with the day's work. He'd lie there, too exhausted to complete it, but too awake to leave the gap open for even a moment.

Then there were days where he slept sound and deep, safe in the knowledge that, for now, no more could be done, and every hole had been sealed, every wall and defense had been strengthened.

But Don knew that the lair was like a Tapestry, no matter how many defenses there were, how strong it has been made, there were always going to be ways.

If one picked at the threads long enough, they would break.

So Donatello never allowed himself to rest for long, because he knew there'd always be another gap in the tapestry, to sew shut.

* * *

**AN: Hmm...a little behind again.**


	16. Grandeur

**Grandeur**

* * *

Once, these walls had held fascination for him. They had housed a clan worthy of praise, a legacy of honour and truth. Once, not too long ago, the grandeur and allure of the towering walls, precision fighting and powerful leader proclaiming justice had swept him up. For a moment, he had lost his senses. For a moment, his focus and reason had abandoned him.

Disgrace burned in his eyes, hardened with resolve. With a resolve so final and absolute, it could never again be shattered. It was rooted deep into his very soul. He may bend. But he would never break it. Tightening his jaw, he swallowed the acid in his throat. For now he saw the grandeur for what it truly was. He saw the poison's allure which had dulled his mind. He saw the hate, the doshonour and the vengeance which dominated the building, teeming and swarming in the city like the insects they were

Leonardo felt sickened. _How could he ever have doubted?_

Abruptly, he turned and walked away. There was no grandeur to be found in empires built on hatred and death, built on a pile of corpses and lies. The grandeur lay in honour, justice and family. He'd always known that, and he vowed never to forget it.

Leonardo would never allow himself to be blinded again. Not even for a moment.

* * *

**AN: Set in the very first season of the 2003 cartoon series, after Master Splinter's explanation of the Shredder's true identity. Wow, it's getting hard to keep up, but I really wanted to finish this one and get back on track. I always write the darkest fiction when I'm in the happiest of moods, interestingly enough. Hope you enjoy.**


	17. Lavish

**Lavish**

* * *

Mikey had always wondered what it was like to live lavishly. What was it like to have plenty? To have so much that you didn't know what to do with it all. When he was younger, he'd watch the kids at the park with wonder, as they threw off their jumpers, toys discarded. As mischievous as Michelangelo was, he understood that clothes were precious, toys were to be taken care of, because you never knew when there'd be more.

He'd watch in wonder as they selected from bags of sweets, or rejected the ones they were given. Why would you reject something like that? When they got treats, they were always greatful for them. It had baffled Mikey when he was young.

It was rare they'd ever gone without. Master Splinter had always done his best to ensure they had all they needed, but sometimes early life was hard, when the winter hit, and things grew scarce. You learned to appreciate all you had, huddling down and sharing what you had amongst your family, warm despite the cold.

He used to wonder what it was like to live a lavish life.

Mikey grinned softly, his eyes sparkling and full of life as he decided. He did have a lavish life. He'd been lavished with love, and that was the most important.


	18. Historical

**Historical**

* * *

History was a strange thing. It mapped out the past of the world, twisting and turning itself into impossible shapes. It was funny, how history bent itself to the will of the one needing it, reading it. History would never be the same for two people at once, even if they believed the same facts exactly.

Sometimes, he wondered if they would be remembered. There defeat of the Shredder would be recorded in the history of the Utroms, but would they ever be known on earth. Would, years after they had gone, things be found? Would stories be told, legends be made?

Would there finally be acceptance and approval from the world, long after the fear of them had gone?

Or would they fade into the darkness like the shadows that they were, melting into the nothingness?

Would their feats be seen as historical achievements? Or would they simply remain unknown as they were meant to?

Donatello wasn't too sure he wanted to be twisted to the whims of an argument, to individual interpretations. Was it worth the remembrance, to have your life twisted, discussed, for all to see? To have every action discussed, for good or evil, and your way as a ninja dishonored.

Mostly, Donatello scoffed at the thought, knowing the cons far outweighed the pros. He'd pick his tools back up and get back to work on his latest ground-breaking invention.

But sometimes, just sometimes, he wished he could have his moment in history.


	19. Mistletoe

**Mistletoe**

* * *

Sometimes, Mikey thought he was like mistletoe.

People didn't get what it really was. It wasn't a match making service, or a piece of Christmas cheer. It was much more than that.

When he really thought about it, being mistletoe sucked. Mistletoe was picked from the rest of the plant, and taken away. It would be hung up somewhere nobody would think to look, but eventually, everyone would find.

Too often was Michelangelo snatched from his family, in battle or otherwise, dangled as a kind of bait to lure them in, in the hopes of taking them down once and for all.

Michelangelo was a part of that plan, the mistletoe hung up for unsuspecting victims to be caught in. He watched with a clenched heart, wishing, yearning, for just one time where it didn't have to be this way.

_Just once._

Mistletoe watched on while those beneath it kissed, and Mikey watched on as his brothers were forced into battle. Sometimes, it felt all too much like the cold lips of death leaning in for a kiss, the chapped skin brushing his brothers far too close.

And Mikey decided he didn't want to be the mistletoe anymore.


	20. Mythical

**Mythical**

* * *

Donatello often wondered on the definition of a mythical being.

Sometimes, he wondered if anyone would classify them as mythical. By definition, mythical beings didn't exist. But their existence was a one in a life-time phenomenon.

But not once had Donatello heard a gasp of awe at the initial sight of him as he lurked in the shadows. Not once had the fascination for them been born out of anything but malice and cruel intent. When had their deeds and abilities been revered or elicited anything but gasps of horror?

Sometimes, it made Donatello wonder on the term. What made something mythical? Was it the disbelief? The improbability or lack of factual evidence? Was it born out of legends? Was it a thing of horror, or a thing of fantasy?

Could you be mythical when the world didn't even know you'd been born?

Sometimes, the thought would take root in his heart, and stay there, nibbling away at the inside.

But only sometimes, because when he looked at his brother and father, something within him settled. Donatello decided that mythical was fundamentally something that was not real, and did not exist.

And he decided that he didn't want to by mythical, if it meant the values and love of his family were worth nothing to the world.

He was happy being ordinary.

In his own extraordinary way.

* * *

**AN: Sorry for the delay. Life's been quite busy. Inspired to keep going by the flood of new drabbles by notawordsmith**


	21. Longevity

**Longevity**

* * *

Raph often wondered about the meaning of longevity. He supposed a lot of people did and he wasn't really that special for breaching the boundaries of his mind almost daily. He walked the line, but sometimes, the lines blurred. What was longevity?

That kid was never blessed with longevity.

That kid, who'd stepped off the wrong path, stumbled onto the path of others, the wrong path, where you needed a hundred candles just to see two feet in front of you. It's not like you knew that shit on the battle field though. Not like you knew it when He was coming at you with a bat the size of his bloody arm in one hand and a mighty sharp-looking knife in the other.

You only realized when the rush had faded, when you wiped the blood from your brow and stared down at the spoils. You only realized when you met his glassy eyes and it was far too late.

And maybe salvation would be at the bottom of the next bottle. Or the next. He didn't know, but he'd keep trying until he found it.

And sometimes, Raphael cursed his longevity.

* * *

**AN: Keep getting so behind!**


	22. Visionary

**Visionary**

* * *

Don had never thought of himself as much of a visionary. He let his mind wonder, he tinkered, be imagined large ideas which often did see the light of day. But never had he thought beyond in more than an enthusiastic daydream.

That had to change. Never before had Donatello realized the importance of planning every detail, of succeeding in every mission. Never before had he understood Leonardo's obsessive need for perfection quite so well.

Before his trip into the future, he had been blissfully unaware that beyond the daily fights for survival, more had to be done. More had to be reached. He can to plan, to see what was going to happen, to stop it before it could.

And in his vision, he proposed a world where they ridded themselves of the Shredder once and for all.

Before he could do the same to them.

* * *

**AN: Quality is slipping a bit. Ah well.**


	23. Gloves

**Gloves**

* * *

Bishop laced up his boots with deft fingertips. His movements were stiff, his joints seized up by cold, by the frigid frost that wrapped around the battle field. This was war. This was the conscription he had been forced into as a boy. This is what he had to fight for. And now, as the enemy forces pushed them further and further back, and the chances of survival grew slimmer and slimmer, he took a precious moment, int a sea of chaos...to remember.

With shaking hands, he lifted the gloves from his satchel. They were made of fur, delicate and fragile. Just like her. Just like the lover back home, to whom he wished so dearly to return. His heart ached, and for a moment, the pain was greater than hat in his fingers. He twisted the gloves in his hands, and breathed them in deeply. They smelt of her, of peppermint and tea and something floral, like rose.

His duty was to his country, not to her, not to himself. His duty was to a country that would sooner see him dead than remember his name.

Bishop tucked the gloves back into his bag and stood. His boots dug into the grit and ashes of the dead, leaving his mark on their souls forever. He prayed that he would one day return to her. But as he stepped into the red dawn, he knew that he never would.

* * *

**A/N: Been a while since I have posted a drabble a day. An assignment fixed that. Just a drabble speaking of Bishop's time in the war. **


End file.
